


Fear as an Aphrodisiac (The Horizontal Mambo Mix)

by musesfool



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/musesfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not fear of rejection that makes Ellen hesitate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear as an Aphrodisiac (The Horizontal Mambo Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkandchocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandchocolate/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fear as an Aphrodisiac](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/861) by inkandchocolate. 



> Thanks to Snacky for betaing and Amberlynne for hand-holding.

The Winchesters show up while Ellen's reconciling the till. She hears the telltale growl of the engine and the crunch of the gravel in the parking lot, and she sighs. They're good boys and she likes them, but they're a whirlpool of trouble she doesn't want to get sucked into. Even so, she unlocks the door and holds it open, watching as Dean manhandles Sam out of the car and into the bar. Sam's got a bloody nose and an arm wrapped around his middle that makes Ellen think, broken ribs, and he walks with all the unsteadiness of a colt feeling its legs for the first time.

She pulls his arm across her shoulder when Dean gets him to the door, and he gives her a tight smile.

"Thanks," Dean says, flashing a subdued version of his usual high-wattage grin. In the light, she can see that he's banged up as well, and bleeding through his jeans, but he waves her off when she gives him a curious look.

They deposit Sam on one of the wooden chairs and Ellen locks the door, and detours behind the bar to get the first aid kit while Dean gives Sam a thorough examination. Sam bats his hands away, but his eyes are unfocused and he winces when he moves his right arm.

"Looks like his ribs," she says, handing the kit to Dean.

Dean nods and grunts. Together they ease Sam out of his jackets and shirts, and Ellen remembers this vividly, though it's been years since she did it for anyone. She never wanted to have to do it again, not for Ash and definitely not for Jo.

Sam ducks his head and mumbles, embarrassed, and though the boy's clearly got nothing to be embarrassed about, she shrugs and goes back to her receipts and lets Dean take care of him.

After his ribs are wrapped, Sam unfolds himself from the chair, moving like he's a hundred and three instead of twenty-three. When Dean grabs him, she sees him wince, notices again the dried blood staining the thighs of Dean's jeans.

"You can stay in the room out back," she says. "There are clean sheets in the closet, so you can make up the beds."

"Thanks," Sam says, weariness making his voice soft and thin.

"And Dean, you come back here when you've put him to bed, and let me look at that wound."

"Aw, Ellen, if you wanted me to take my pants off, you should've just asked."

She snorts and waves them off, trying unsuccessfully not to think of Dean without his pants on. She's old enough to--well, she's old enough to know better, but not so old that the prospect doesn't appeal. Some might say it shouldn't, but Ellen gave up on should and shouldn't the first time she saw a ghost throw her daddy down the stairs.

Of course, when Dean comes back fifteen minutes later, she doesn't have to think about it, because he's standing there in front of her, hands at his belt buckle, cocky grin melting to uncertainty when she raises an eyebrow.

She laughs then, enjoying the disgruntled look on his face. He's way too much fun to fuck with, even with his pants on. "Let's get you fixed up." She grabs the first aid kid and jerks her head towards the office in the back of the bar. He moves in that direction slowly, shaking his head.

Ellen follows him in and closes the door with a click, turning just in time to see him ease his jeans down to his knees, wincing as the dried blood pulls away from the cut on his thigh.

"Sit," she says, pointing at the old plaid couch against the wall. She turns the light on as bright as it will go and then turns to see him sitting, jeans shoved down around his knees, black boxer-briefs rusty with blood. Even covered in blood, his thighs are worth ogling, but she forces herself not to stare. Back when she and Bill used to hunt together, she was always horny after a successful kill, always needed to channel that fear and adrenaline into something no less exciting but a sight less dangerous. That hadn't changed much after she started staying home with Jo; she'd always greeted Bill with hungry, sloppy kisses and a hot ache between her thighs, all the worry transformed into the need to make sure he was still alive.

Dean's not Bill, and she doesn't want him to be, but her reaction--that's still the same.

She grabs the suture kit and a pair of latex gloves, and settles herself on the floor between his knees. She gives him a sharp glare, daring him to say something. He laughs. She ignores the little shiver down her spine.

After she's cleaned the blood away with alcohol wipes, Ellen takes a good look at the laceration on the inside of his thigh. She gets up, goes to the desk, and takes out her flask of whiskey. "Here."

He nods and takes a long drink. "Thanks. It's just a flesh wound, but it bled like a stuck pig." He sounds tired but alert.

"You're lucky it missed the artery."

"And the family jewels."

"Those, too." She looks up at him and laughs. Her hair brushes against his leg and he shivers. The mood goes from light to loaded in a second. Ellen swallows hard and forces herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. The skin of his thigh is pale and freckled and dusted with fine coppery hair. She tries not to notice that, or the way his muscles tense when she starts sewing him up. "You boys were looking for those missing kids?" she asks, trying to ease the tension.

"Yeah," he says. "It was a lamia, and man, was she pissed."

"But you took care of it."

Dean nods. "Got the kids out, too. Sam did most of the hard work. She just caught me by surprise, is all." He sounds proud and satisfied, and he deserves to. His eyes flutter closed, lashes long and curled against the shadowed skin beneath, and she knows the adrenaline high from the hunt is wearing off. She's still revved up, though, and trying not to think about it, not to anticipate closing her eyes and picturing Dean when she gets herself off once she's alone.

It's more difficult to ignore the fact that he's half-hard when her arm bumps against his dick and he sucks in a sharp breath, head tipping back to show her the long line of his throat. She bites her lip, pulls harder than necessary on the silk. He yelps, and she has to bite her lip again, torn between apologizing and smirking.

"You all right there, slick?"

"Sam's better at this," he says, hands gripping the edge of the couch hard enough to make the knuckles white. She imagines them buried in her hair, short nails digging into her scalp as she sucks him down.

Ellen lets the smirk show now, and finishes her stitching. When she's done, she leans back on her heels and strips off the bloody latex gloves, tossing them into the garbage pail.

She watches him through her lashes, bare thighs splayed as wide as his jeans will allow, the bulge in his briefs that his t-shirt doesn't hide, the gleam of his amulet as his chest rises and falls, his breathing loud in the silence. His head is resting on the back of the couch; his eyes are closed but his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

The moment stretches out, and she knows she has a choice. She could get up and walk away, say something motherly about taking better care of himself, even though she's never tried to mother him and he wouldn't have it if she did; or, she could lean forward, put her hands on his knees, and her mouth on his dick. She licks her lips at the thought, feeling the wet pulse of heat between her thighs that she's been mostly ignoring in favor of patching him up. He won't say no if she makes the first move, but he's not going to do it himself. Not with her. She scares him a little bit, and that turns her on even more.

It's not fear of rejection that makes her hesitate.

Despite the rumors that swirled around at the time (rumors she hopes Dean hasn't heard), she never slept with John Winchester. She loved Bill and was always faithful to him, and back then, John couldn't see anyone but his dead wife, and Ellen was smart enough not to want any part of that. Maybe if he'd kept coming around after Bill died, and maybe if she'd forgiven him quicker, they'd have all been one big happy family, but he hadn't and she hadn't, and she's pretty sure that kind of TV family happiness is a pipedream anyway, or at least not meant for the likes of the Harvelles or the Winchesters.

And she's pretty sure Dean hasn't slept with Jo, because before she left, Jo still had that schoolgirl crush on him, and nothing would snuff that out faster than being fucked and left behind, no matter how great a lay he is. Jo's still young enough for that kind of thing to break her heart.

But Ellen knows the score, knows exactly what she's getting into, knows how to minimize the awkwardness after, and keep her expectations low.

She puts her hands on his knees and leans forward, blows a puff of air over the hard line of his dick in his shorts. "You want me to kiss it and make it better?" Her voice is rough and low.

His eyes fly open for a second of surprise, but then his mouth curves in a lazy grin. He slouches down, relaxing back into the cushions, and wraps her hair around his fingers. "Yeah."

She laughs, low and thrilled. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of his boxer-briefs and he raises his hips, helps her ease them down so his dick and his balls are free. He reaches down with his free hand, strokes himself once, thumbing the slick beading at the head. Then he rubs his thumb along her bottom lip. Her tongue slips out to taste him, and her nipples go hard in her bra.

She licks up the underside of his dick, swirls her tongue around the head, tasting the salt-bitter taste of precome, then sucks him down. She wraps one hand around the base and strokes up to meet her mouth. His hand tightens in her hair. She moans and opens the fly of her jeans so she can get a hand down inside.

"You like that, huh?" He pushes up into her mouth and she lets him, licks and sucks and hums, breathing in the smell of sex and sweat and blood. "You like having my cock in your mouth?"

She moans again, liking the way it makes his breath hitch. She rubs her aching nipples against her arms and enjoys the jolt of pleasure to her cunt. She works him slowly and thoroughly, fingering herself while she does it, watching the flush rise under his skin.

"Wait," he says, pulling her off. "I wanna make this last a little longer." He drags her up into his lap and kisses her. She can taste the whiskey on his tongue, and underneath that, the lingering dregs of fear and adrenaline. She squirms and he gasps into her mouth.

"All right," she says, easing back, "I don't want to have to redo all my suturing. You sure you're up for this?"

He laughs breathlessly and tugs at his cock, which is slick with spit and pre-come. "You don't usually ask dumb questions. I'm kind of flattered, actually."

"Jackass," she says affectionately, and he grins. "Get undressed and lie back." She grins as he does what she tells him, making short work of his shirts and boots and jeans. He doesn't put on a show, but she stops to watch anyway, especially when he bends over to get a condom out of his jeans pocket. Ellen's always appreciated beautiful things.

"How come I'm the only one who's naked here?" he asks, settling down on the couch again, unselfconscious in his nakedness, the wound on his thigh dark and wrong against his skin.

"Hold your horses. Not everything's a race to the finish." She has a moment of apprehension, thinking about the silvery stretch marks around her breasts and belly, the gray hairs she hopes he won't be able to see. She gives herself a mental shake and unbuttons her shirt. He watches, stroking himself idly, his other hand playing with his balls, and she feels another rush of heat under her skin, along with the knowledge that he wants her, stretch marks, gray hair and all.

"Don't worry," he says, mouth curving in a dirty grin full of promises. "I'll make sure you finish first."

She snorts a laugh, the sound loud and ridiculous and comfortable. She shoves out of her jeans and underwear and climbs on top of him, knees sinking into the sagging cushions as she tries to keep her weight off him, given his injured state. She pushes him back against the arm of the couch. "This won't hurt a bit."

"You're the best doctor ever," he answers and she laughs again.

He hands her the condom. She rolls it onto him, and tosses the wrapper to the floor with their clothes. She raises herself up, feeling the pull in her thighs, and then sinks down onto his cock, eyes closing and back arching at how good it feels.

His hands come up to play with her breasts, twisting and teasing her nipples, and she moans, tightening around him on the downstroke. She rolls her hips and settles into a slow rhythm that has him thrusting up to meet her, his hands moving down to settle on her hips, thumbs tickling her belly.

She twines her fingers with his, guides his right hand down between them to rub at her clit, nerve endings sparking like live wires in the rain. She leans forward and captures his mouth in a sloppy, hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue. He gasps into her mouth as she speeds up, matching his urgency now, and outpacing him when she comes with a shriek he swallows down like it belongs to him.

He thrusts up harder, into the tight grip of her cunt, his fingers pressed tight against her and wringing every last wave of pleasure out of her orgasm. His hips stutter and jerk as she clenches around him. She kisses him through it, holding him deep inside as he comes, one of his hands digging into her hips, leaving half-moon marks that'll sting in the morning when she showers, the other tangling in her hair and pulling, which is almost enough to get her off again. She lets him slip out and then finishes the job with her fingers, as unselfconscious now as he was a little while ago. She puts on a bit of a show this time, knowing he's watching, eyes heavy lidded and mouth swollen and slick from their kisses. The weight of his gaze on her, and the way she's gone off once already has primed her, and she comes quicker than usual, the second wave of pleasure rolling through her slow and deep.

He gets rid of the condom, but she stops him before he can get dressed again. "Lemme make sure you didn't pull any stitches." She gives his thigh a good going over with her fingers, and once she's sure the sutures have held, she licks at the crease where his leg joins his body, breathing in the smell of sweat and sex.

"You gotta give me a few minutes," he says. "I'm not eighteen anymore." She laughs, because who is anymore, but moves out of the way so he can pull his jeans on. He balls up his underwear and shoves it into a pocket. She bites the inside of her cheek so she doesn't laugh or say something about it. She can't keep from rolling her eyes, though. Men. "I've gotta check on Sam, anyway."

"Okay." They dress quickly, in companionable silence, and she says, "My room's the second door on the left, on the second floor," before wondering if that's presuming too much. "If you want."

He grins. "Oh, I want."

She unlocks the door, but before she can open it, he presses her against it, gives her a long, slow, wet kiss. "Thank you."

She smiles and sighs, feeling a little like a starry-eyed girl with a crush. She tries not to let it show, though. "Any time."

He gives her a thumbs up and then slips out the door.

She waits a couple of minutes before she heads back to her bedroom, tossing her dirty clothes in the hamper and pulling on a clean t-shirt. She leaves the door unlocked, just in case.

end

~*~


End file.
